


falling

by threadoflife



Series: femlock verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Falling In Love, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, Femslash, Jealous Sherlock, John is frustrated, Love Confessions, but for once they get it right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: John is (sexually) frustrated. Sherlock confronts her on it after dinner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> another phone-typed femlock thing
> 
> sorry for the titles, i am so crap at picking titles

John is distracted over dinner. She misses her cues of “brilliant” and “amazing,” and she keeps fingering her glass of water and squirming in her seat every couple of minutes. It makes the seam of her jeans rub against her, just so. It’s not nearly enough—but then, she can’t very well have it off here in public at a table.

“John,” Sherlock says. Her voice is harsh, as if she’s been saying it more than once. “Are you even listening?”

“Course,” John says and then winces immediately because of course Sherlock can see right through the lie. “Sorry, no,” she mutters. “Bit distracted.”

Sherlock looks down her nose at John. “Yes,” she says. “Obviously.”

They don’t talk much for the rest of the evening. When they’re on their way home, Sherlock walks a bit at a distance from her; their arms don’t brush. It’s a tiny thing, but John misses it. It makes the frustration worse, somehow.

At home, John takes her jacket off, tosses it into the chair and begins undoing her scarf. She stills in the middle of this, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on her. “… Yes?” she asks, turning around to find Sherlock still in the doorway, unmoving and still dressed. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock just looks at her. Her eyes are particularly focused tonight, burning into John with an intensity John doesn’t understand. After a while, Sherlock just says, “I’m going out,” and she whirls around, takes a step into the hallway—

“Wait,” John says, confused. “We just got here, what are you—”

Sherlock eyes her over her shoulder. “Don’t be stupid, John,” she snaps.

“… I know I’m an idiot, Sherlock, but I still haven’t developed telepathic skills.” John rubs the heel of her hand against her forehead. She doesn’t need this now; she just wants to go to sleep, have a wank—hopefully a satisfying one—and not think about whether Sherlock is getting herself chased down alleys by assholes again. “Can’t you for once—humour me? And explain?”

Sherlock marches back into the room and stops just before John, standing much too close. “All right, John, I will humour you,” she grits out, managing to sound condescending even though she’s speaking though her teeth. “You’ve been distracted all night. Kept touching everything with your fingers, were restless enough to make even me squirm, and you kept rocking forward in your seat periodically. You’re wearing your favourite pair of jeans—a stronger material than the other ones, and the seam in the front is a particular feature you’re fond of. In short, you want to _fuck_ , and forgive me if I don’t want to be in the same flat with you when you masturbate thinking of some man you don’t even know and care about even less,” she finishes with a hiss.

Sherlock’s nostrils are flaring, and her eyes are bright. John just stares up at her blankly.

Several moments pass like this. Their eyes are locked; neither of them looks away.

Then John takes a step forward. Sherlock’s eyes flick down her body once, and whatever she deduces is enough to change the rhythm of her breathing: it comes out thinner, breathier, and John decides to do it before Sherlock can run off.

Just once. She wants to know the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth just once. It’s all she feels she ever wanted.

Sherlock grants her this wish. It’s almost as wonderful as Sherlock stepping into her life after John asked for a miracle in her shitty bedsit right after coming back from Afghanistan, but not quite. This is just as wonderful and in other ways even more wonderful.

Sherlock’s lips are incredibly soft. They yield under John’s without a second’s hesitation, opening up so the dry outside gives way to the wetter, hotter inside, which slides over John’s bottom lip, making her eyelids flutter shut.

She pulls back before it can go further. If she does this one more second, she will step over the abyss and there will be no coming back.

She needs to know.

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and her lashes are trembling. She looks terribly confused, and young, and innocent. John watches as she blinks her eyes open—sluggishly—and stares down at John as if she’s never seen her before.

John takes the plunge. “Yes?” she asks. She is unafraid. She is shaking. This may be the most dangerous thing she has ever done, and she feels so thrillingly alive.

Sherlock’s eyes fill with something John is afraid to recognise. She’d say it’s something like wonder, but that would be too good to be true, right? Something like Sherlock just doesn’t happen to John.

Except she did—she did, and she does, and she’s still here, touching her fingertips to her own mouth, and saying, “Yes,” hoarsely.

And John just steps forward.

The abyss opens, and she falls.

So deeply in love.

 


End file.
